Nobility Has Its Side Effects
by AdidasandPie
Summary: After a trying week for the medical world because of a scarlet fever outbreak in London, Holmes decides to check up on the good doctor in his consulting room, disguised as a patient. Going to be short, NO slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Joyceeeeeee has done a lovely thing and translated this into Chinese! It can be found here: **

www dot jjwxc dot net /onebook dot php?novelid=1008377

A/N: Set pre-Hiatus, pre-Mary, but several years into their friendship, circa 1887. Namely, late enough for them to be good friends, but early enough that Holmes was still coming to terms with having a friend. I actually wrote this as a one-shot, but it turned out too long, so it'll end up being three chapters.

* * *

**Holmes**

I was worried about Watson.

No- surely that wasn't right? I had never been worried about someone before. I don't think I had ever been truly worried about some_thing_ before, except for perhaps that case back in '83 when there had been a moment that it seemed Lestrade had been right and I wrong. Thanks heavens he was wrong and my string of deductions proved correct, but it had still been enough to give me a emotion I suppose was somewhat near to worry.

No, there had never been worry. Just a niggling annoyance that things were not where they were supposed to be, or not doing what they ought to.

This was no niggling annoyance. This was some thoroughly irritating, yet somehow saddening gnawing settled deep in my chest. Worst of all, I knew this atrocious worrying was probably unfounded. Watson was more than capable of taking care of himself, as he had seen fit to point out to me several times. But perhaps something had happened to him? It _was _dreadfully cold outside, and I knew his leg would be more than protesting. If something had happened, and I was sitting here contemplating it, while he was probably lying freezing in the snow…

Now a new sort of gnawing began to eat away at my innards. I perceived this as guilt, which was just as irksome as worry. Together, the two were such a terrible combination that I resolved to do something, if only to banish the annoying devouring of my inner chest.

A most wonderful idea seized me and I sprung up from the couch, dashing into my bedroom and flinging open my wardrobe's doors, revealing neatly organized fake facial hair and several rows of disguises.

**Watson**

Surely I must be very near to my practice by now? It shouldn't have taken more than an hour to walk from my patient's house to Kensington, but judging by the sun slowly rising in the distance, it had taken far longer than I anticipated. No doubt my weary leg and lack of sleep lately had contributed to it.

It had been an absolutely dreadful week for London's medical population, including myself. A nasty outbreak of scarlet fever* had swept the city, not quite to the point of an epidemic, but enough to make the hospitals and general practices overflow with fever victims.

My own practice, which had become fairly successful and was busy enough on normal days, was full of patients. At the beginning of the week, there had been a sudden surge of patients, most complaining of a sore throat, vomiting, fever, and general discomfort. Several had contracted the red and puffy tongue and sandpapery rash that were telltale signs of the terrible disease.

My hours were somewhat forgiving, and only had me working until three in the afternoon on normal days, four in the midst of this outbreak. There were certainly others in need of my help, so I volunteered St. Mary's**, a hospital in one of the more destitute districts, but not too far from our Baker Street lodgings. It was, however, a good ways from my practice in Kensington when one was making the trudge on foot, which I had been prone to do all the days the past week except for the two on which it had rained.

I usually took a hansom home, because I had no desire to walk through the particular district the hospital was in during the night hours. I had walked home the second night, but quickly refrained from doing it again when I found I my wallet had mysteriously disappeared during the trip.

By the time I returned to Baker Street, I was thoroughly exhausted. It was often late, eight or nine. I do believe that the night I walked I didn't get back until ten, and paid sorely for it the next morning.

Holmes was absorbed in some sort of case, I guessed, because his attention was almost always arrested by a chemical experiment or old case files during the time I was home. He would give a curt nod when I popped my head into the sitting room to say goodnight each night, but we had talked very little this week.

The night I had returned closer to ten I had found him pacing the sitting room in a bout of anxiety. He had whirled around the moment I opened the door and spat "Where the devil have you been?"

I was taken aback by this sudden attention, though a little warmed by his concern.

"I was at St. Mary's"

"Surely not this late?"

"No, I walked home"

At this, his eyes had widened and his eyebrows flew up into his hairline.

"What? Watson, do you not know where St. Mary's is located? It is hardly the kind of place to be walking about in broad daylight, much less in the middle of the night!"

"It's hardly the middle of the night, Holmes" I had sighed, flopping down wearily into the nearest chair.

"Near enough!" He returned, but then softened his tone considerably. "Perhaps, Watson, you should refrain from volunteering for a while and rest a bit."

I gave a start at this, and surged up from my chair. "I'm fine. Just a bit tired from that walk." I had then made a great show of bidding Holmes goodnight and bounding up the stairs, despite feeling immensely tired.

I didn't think I would be able to keep this up much longer though. The little outbreak was beginning to die down, and perhaps the hospital could do with out me for a few days.

I thought of the little girl I had treated last night, and decided that I could certainly last a few more days of this epidemic if I could save but one life.

Today- well, I suppose it was yesterday, had been particularly trying. My practice was very full of fever victims, and it had run until five. I couldn't make my way to the hospital until then, and had decided to take a cab to make up for the lost time. I worked at St. Mary's for a good four hours, before settling my last patient into bed with an insufficient blanket. This hospital reflected its location, and the supplies were less than perfect.

I had just left the hospital when I felt a hand on my arm. I whirled around; wary after getting my pocket picked, and was met with a very desperate face.

"Yer a doctor?" He had asked, dropping his hand at my alarmed countenance.

"Yes,"

"Please' He began, rasping out his words with a sort of hollowness "My daughter- she's so ill, the poor lass. Please, could ye come have a look at 'er?"

I wouldn't have refused anyway, but the desperation in his voice made me all the more eager to help him.

"I should be glad to help"

"Bless ye, bless ye," He stammered, grabbing my arm and leading me down a dark alley to another street. I might have been suspicious had it not been for his eyes. No man was that good an actor.

We finally came to a ramshackle little hovel, scrunched between two tenements. He hurriedly opened the door and half-dragged me inside. We bounded up a flight of stairs and walked a bit down a dirty hallway before coming to a door that must have held the man's daughter.

It did indeed hold the daughter, but not much else. A bed, a ramshackle table and two rickety chairs, along with various other broken items, were littered in the little apartment. I ventured into the destitute place and could not help but feel very grateful for my own lodgings. This place made a 'V.R.' in bullet holes look extravagant.

I saw the girl, no doubt suffering from the same fever as half of London, and made my way over to her. I comforted the mother, who was in a nervous hysteria, and began to treat the little girl. She seemed to be on the verge of developing acute rheumatic fever, which could very well take her life.

At times it times it seemed like I had been in the room for ages, but the next moment it seemed only minutes. By the time I had finally pulled the girl into a safe medical position, the sun was beginning to peak over the horizon. I had profusely refused any monetary compensation the couple tried to offer me. They clearly need it more than me at any rate.

I stumbled rather wearily out of the apartment. I was very tired from my long day

(And night, for that matter). I would have called a cab, but I had no money left. I only brought as much as I would need for the day into a district such as this, for fear of being pick pocketed again. I decided walking was not too bad a thing, for I had an hour or two before I would open my practice and exercise was good for me.

But now it had been at least and hour, and I wasn't halfway to my practice. I must not had paid much attention to the location of the girl's apartment, for it had taken me a good half an hour to find my way out of the destitute district and to a place I recognized.

I did at last make it to my practice, with a pronounced limp and feeling more tired than I wager I'd ever felt. My practice was set to open in ten minutes, so instead of taking the nap I so desperately wanted, I opened the curtains and took a hasty toilette.

**Holmes**

I finally succeeded in escaping our rooms after fixing several mishaps with an itchy fake beard and dodging Mrs. Hudson's insistent protests that I 'Eat a hearty breakfast, Mr. Holmes, before you go out'. I did not feel at all hungry this morning, but I doubt I would have been able to get anything down regardless, due to the irritating gnawing that was still finding my chest a preferable lodging.

My behavior was certainly puzzling from the logician's point of view. There were no signs of Watson being in any sort of mortal danger. A poor-looking messenger boy had showed up late last night, relaying a note from Watson that he was at a patient's and would not return for the night, but instead retire to his Kensington practice.

The man was certainly not foolish enough to do anything but take a cab to his practice, so I could worry over his being accosted in such a sub-par part of the city. His sleep had been lacking this week, and he was sure to be very tired after volunteering so much. Watson had a deep concern for other's health, but no sense of self-preservation. It was an admirable characteristic in anyone's but my own point of view, as self-preservation is more than important in my line of work.

I could not find a justifiable reason for my current activities, besides to banish the irritating gnawing. If someone were to describe to me the situation I was in now to me seven years prior, I would have thought them irreparably insane and sent them off to the nearest asylum immediately. Then again, I had never imagined making any sort of friend seven years ago, especially not one so dear as Watson.

I straightened my fake beard nervously when I looked up to find his practice in sight. I had decided to check in on my friend, to make sure he had not yet collapsed of exhaustion. I certainly could not do so while in my own identity, for the man has a ridiculously large sense of pride and probably could not bear someone fussing over him in such a manner. If Watson saw through my rather good acting abilities the incident would be one he probably could not easily condone. I would not put it past him to discover me. He knew me well, and his own observatory skills were much more than he gave himself credit for in those floridly romantic memoirs.

It was for these reasons that I approached the matter with no little anxiety. I had disguised myself as a full-bearded dockworker. I had reason to believe the disguise would work. I knew from experience that I could trick Watson with my disguises, and he was not liable to be in the most observatory mood after such little sleep. I had resolved to just pop into his waiting room and make sure he was still on his feet, and then promptly return to Baker Street, for I had a fairly pressing case to investigate into after I confirmed my friend's good health.

I stole my courage and approached the little building, entering behind a sneezing man in a gray overcoat to avoid anyone noticing me.

I doubt anyone would have noticed me if I had rode in on an elephant, so absorbed in their own ailments they were. The practice had been open for a few hours now, and was in full swing. The waiting room was bustling full of sick-looking people strewn over every available piece of furniture. I approached an open chair hidden in the corner warily, examining it for germs carefully before perching on the edge. I was not keen to develop an illness myself, as most of the people in the room looked very miserable.

I had never been in Watson's practice during open hours but it was somewhat overwhelming even as a bystander. No wonder than fellow had come home looking absolutely exhausted every night this week. And, I reminded myself, he was volunteering at the hospital on top of it.

I was wrenched out of my thoughts when the consulting-room door opened slowly and my dear friend escorted a sickly old woman through it, patting her arm and reassuring her.

Watson look very much peaked himself, and his complexion rather matched many in the waiting room. It looked as though he did not get much sleep last night, as I had hoped for. He took a deep breath and exhaled wearily when he thought no one was watching, and turned to call in the next patient.

* * *

* I actually researched this (who would've thought?) to find a suitable illness and learned quite a bit of information about scarlet fever. It seems scarlet fever was a prominent and feared disease in the 19th century, and big child killer. But I know next to nothing about Victorian London, and even less about medicine during the time, so if anyone sees any mistakes please don't hesitate in pointing them out.

** Again, I rather surprised myself with the amount of research I did for this one. I said I no nothing of Victorian London, but I no nothing of modern day London either, due to living in America my whole life. So I started out with simply searching for a map, and found a wonderful link for a poverty map. I searched through that for a while, and with the help of Google maps, found this St. Mary's hospital, which is indeed real, and was around during the time, having been founded in 1845. I searched directions between the hospital and Baker St., and it comes out to being only .3 miles away. It's 2 miles from Kensington, which comes out to 40 minutes walking time. This is probably all very boring to everyone, but I found it fascinating. I'll put up a link of the poverty map anyway.

http –colon- forward slash- forward slash- www- dot- umich- dot- edu- forward slash- ~ - risotto- forward slash- maxzooms - forward slash- nw – forward slash- nwc56 – dot – html

I hope that works. Baker St. is in the top right hand corner, and St. Mary's is near Bell street, in the top left.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you so much for all of the reviews and alerts and favorites. I had no idea the story would get so much response!

And to respond to anon: Yes, I did mean "I know". Oops. It's a bit of pet peeve of mine when people abbreviate their writing like that, so thanks for the heads-up.

* * *

I remained in my observatory perch for another hour and a half, seeing patients come and go from the consulting room and watching as Watson grew more and more tired-looking.

I was puzzled for the second time at my behavior in the incident. I had intended to pop my head and confirm his health, then return to my case. However, I found myself reluctant to leave. I was not entirely sure Watson would not keel over at any moment. Besides, it was not as if there was a lack of entertainment. The waiting room was full of interesting people to make deductions about. Not to mention watching my friend in his element was more than a little fascinating.

Watson came back into the waiting room once again, looking much the worse for wear. It was only when he stumbled a bit on the way back into the consulting room when a sweeping realization came over me. I hoped he had not contracted the dreadful illness from a patient. Thought I knew little about medicine, I did know scarlet fever was contagious through direct contact with an infected person. Worse still was thought that Watson could have caught it any time during the week and still pressed on with his work and volunteering. He was too stubborn to admit when he himself was ill, even he could diagnose himself capably. It would probably have appealed to his noble spirit to continue helping others despite his health.

I lacked both Watson's noble spirit and lack of regard for his health, however, and began to compile a plan to draw him away from his practice and into a bed before he collapsed. It would be best not to directly confront him, though I would if it came to it, pride or no pride.

For the longest time I could not think of a single thing that would draw away his noble spirit from helping the less fortunate. The perfect idea hit me like a bullet, and I hurriedly began to compose a fake telegraph form conveying the message that I had contracted scarlet fever myself and was desperately in need of Watson's help. It was a rather low blow, but I knew the man would not come for anything less than concern for me. I was near the end of y scrawled message when the slamming of the door so very rudely interrupted my thoughts.

I jerked my head upward and looked towards the door. The entrance was singular in itself compared to the rest of the patients who had all come in very quietly, lacking the strength to blow the door open in such a manner.

The man who entered was not comparable to the other patients in any other ways either. He had not the pale complexion and other symptoms of fever, but sported a bloody nose, blackening eye, and his left arm was dangling most uselessly at his side. I concluded, with my limited medical experience, that it was broken. He was quite the ruffian by all means.

Watson chose this unfortunate time to emerge from his consulting room with another patient. He looked, if anything, worse than the last time; and I dearly hoped I could put my plan into action soon. It seemed the new arrival had other plans, for as soon as he saw the doctor he rushed across the room in an unsteady gait towards him. If it was not clear from the newcomer's stumbling walk that he was intoxicated, his voice proved it without a doubt.

"Eh, you, doctor" He slurred, while swaying unsteadily in front of Watson and his patient. It took no great detective to deduce he had been in a bar fight of sorts recently, which was no little feat as it was barely eleven-thirty in the morning.

"Come and give us a hand, there's a good fellow, eh?" the drunkard said. "And maybe afterwards you kin introduce me to this fine little lady, huh, doctor?'

Watson, chivalrous as always, had stepped protectively in front of the young lady the ruffian had been referring to.

"Come now, Doctor, me arm needs a fixin', and you'll do it fer me!"

Watson eyes had hardened from the normal gentleness they showed for an injured person.

"Sir, I'll be glad to assist you when you sit down and kindly refrain from raising your voice. The most I can do for you now is to clean up your nose and give you a bit of ice for your eye. I'm afraid I have patients who require immediate attention."

Watson had turned around, presumably to get the man a handkerchief and some ice. The drunkard did not sit down, but leapt forward and struck Watson a heavy blow to the back of his head with his good fist. Watson stumbled forward and would have surely fallen if it had not been for the small table in front of him. The girl next to my friend let out a shriek as the ruffian hauled him up. I leapt to my feet and rushed across the rooms, but not before the man had landed a few more blows on my friend. Watson had, despite his obvious dislike of the man, refrained from fighting back, probably for some ridiculous notion that the injured man could not have defended himself.

A few other men had also rushed over to break up the little scuffle, hauling Watson to his feet. He insisted that he was fine, but I could see the blows had done no good to him. I made sure he was a good as he could be, before rounding on the offender, who was being held back by a few more.

"I've naught met a worse doctor than the likes of you, you dirty scumbag!" He shouted in the direction of my friend. I gladly assisted in kicking the odious man out of the building, but unlike the others, I slipped out after him.

I caught up with him quickly. He was stumbling along drunkenly down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace.

I seized his shoulder and swung him round to face me, treating him with my most intimidating glare.

He did shrink a bit upon first seeing it, but set his face in stone and rose up to his full height after a moment.

"What do _you_ want?" He spat, shoving my arm off him roughly.

I sent him disgusted look and shoved back. "I think you ought to learn a lesson about whom you choose to insult. That doctor happens to be a very dear friend of mine, and I do not at all appreciate nor tolerate anyone insulting him," I said icily.

"Well," The man growled, sneering, " Anyone who can't hold their own in a fair fight deserves to be insulted!"

"Punching someone in the back of the head hardly constitutes a fair fight!" I returned, my voice getting louder.

"Care to show me what one is, then? I doubt you or your doctor friend could hold your own against me in-" I cut him off with a well placed blow to the side of his chin that sent him sprawling on the pavement.

"I'll have you know" I growled, "That both the doctor and myself could beat you in a fight with one arm tied behind our back,"

I left him half lying on the street, and strode back to Watson's practice. I could not stand another man insulting Watson, especially in such a vulgar and unjust way.

I began to regret my actions when I re-entered the waiting room to find Watson collecting yet another patient very unsteadily. I walked over to the attendant's desk on the pretense of delivering the message I had composed earlier about my fake illness. The attendant delivered it in turn to Watson, whose eyes grew wide upon reading it. He immediately announced that the practice would be closing for the rest of the day; kindly refer all problems to Dr. Anstruther just next door.

I was a little alarmed at the quickness that he collected his hat and coat and rushed out of the building and into the street. I had to hurry to catch up with him, but was not hard pressed to meet his pace with his now very pronounced limp. Even more alarming was the fact that the man did not call a cab, but continued on foot towards Baker Street. I felt some little joy to know that he valued me so highly as to close down his practice and immediately go to me if I was ill. I was certainly a poor friend if I let him walk all the way to Baker Street under this false pretense in return, and in his condition too.

I did not have to think up a plan to stop him because he started to slow his pace and eventually ended up leaning against a brick wall, rubbing his hand over his eyes wearily. I saw the warning signs and hurried towards him as his knees buckled and he all but collapsed.

I barely had time to reach him and prevent his head from striking the pavement. I lowered him into a sitting position against the wall while he collected himself.

Watson looked up at me shamefacedly. "My thanks to you, sir. I'm afraid I had a little spell of light-headedness there."

I scoffed inwardly. Light-headedness, indeed. I cleared my throat and pulled myself back into character. I had nearly forgotten my disguise in all the excitement.

"It was nothing. May I suggest you call a cab, sir? You look a little peaked."

Watson's face colored as he struggled to stand. I grabbed his elbow and helped him up.

"I'm afraid I don't have any fare. I hadn't anticipated being out today."

So at least the little mystery of his walking was cleared up.

"I shall call one for you, then."

Watson positively bristled at that.

"Oh, sir, I couldn't possibly ask you to do such a thing" he stammered.

"It is only a trifle," I said, waving off his protests. "It is no problem for me, I assure you,"

I stepped forward to call a hansom before he could protest any further. I guided him into the seat and once again waved off his profuse thanks. The man was polite to a fault.

I hoped that he would not have gotten into a cab presented by a stranger in normal circumstances. He had to have at least learned something from me. In the present circumstances, however, I could pardon it on his weakened condition.

Now the only thing remaining was to get back to Baker Street and out of my disguise before Watson arrived there. I wasted no time in calling another hansom and yelling at the cabbie to get there "on the double", waving a large coin for some encouragement.

* * *

One more chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Again, thank you for all of the support! You guys make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. It's wonderful to get reviews from authors whose stories I've read and loved. I don't know if I mentioned it, but this was my first Holmes fic, so this is all very nice.

* * *

I should not like to take that cab ride again. The cab was fairly flying through the streets and bouncing terribly. I counted at least three times that we were only on two wheels at a turn.

I jumped out before the hansom came to a full stop in front of our rooms and rushed up the stairs. I threw open the sitting door, only to stop in dismay.

I was convinced I had beaten Watson back, judging from the speed my cabbie was going. Unfortunately, it was just the opposite. Watson must have just beaten me back for he was still hanging his coat and hat on the rack. He looked up when I made my hasty entrance, only to cock an eyebrow inquiringly.

I stopped in my tracks, brain working furiously to come up with an excuse. "Is there a Mr. Holmes here?" I finally spluttered, still breathing heavily from my dash up the stairs.

"Yes," Watson said flatly. "I believe he is standing in front of me, in a fake beard and mustache."

My stomach plummeted at his last remark. I searched his features for signs of anger, but could find none. He turned to limp towards the fireplace. I stepped forward tentatively, hoping not to induce his wrath.

"How long did you know?" I managed to choke out.

To my relief, he wore a slightly amused expression on his face when he turned to face me. "It took me rather longer than it should have, actually. I was certainly suspicious of a man who sat in my waiting-room for two hours, but I didn't see that it was you until the drunk man came in."

I winced slightly at this. I thought I had been clever with my position in the back of the room, and had hidden myself quite well. Apparently not. But how had he recognized me when the drunken man came in?

Before I could put the question to him, he continued. "Don't worry, Holmes, your disguise was rather good. I wouldn't have recognized you had that man not punched me. A mere patient of mine would not dash across the room at the first sign of danger." He smiled wryly here. "My suspicions were only confirmed when you followed him out the door. That and no one has quite the same nose as you, Holmes."

I was a bit put-out, not only at his discovering my identity, but that he had seen me behave very vulnerably.

"I'm sure I'm touched by your concern, Holmes," Watson continued "But there was really no need to check up on me."

I scoffed at that. "No need? You are likely to keel over any moment now!" I stepped forward to help him to a seat, but he withdrew and glowered at me.

"Holmes, really, I'm quite well."

"Watson, you look worse than some of your patients!"

He was about to respond when he suddenly swayed on his feet and put a hand up to his head. I rushed forward and put a hand under his arm, but he stayed on his feet, albeit a little unsteadily.

He did not protest this time when I pushed him towards the settee, but his lips thinned at my fussing. He fell on to the cushions and lay rather too limp for comfort with his face in the pillow.

"Watson." I said a little concernedly.

He rolled over to face me, giving me a weak glare. "Come now, Watson," I said sharply, my patience thinning. "Stubbornness does not become you."

He attempted to give me another glare, but stopped midway when he paled considerably and grasped at his stomach.

"Watson." I said, bit more gently. "How long have you been ill?"

"I don't know for sure." He replied hoarsely. "I could have contracted it at any time this week."

"You do think it is scarlet fever, then?"

"Yes," he responded weakly. "I think I may have gotten it from that little girl last night- this morning, rather." He added after a moment of thought.

"Do you mean to say you were at a patients house in the middle of the night?"

"Well, yes, Holmes, I am a doctor. There are certain things we have to do."

"Neglecting one's health isn't possibly one of those things, is it?" I snapped.

"I am not neglecting my health! I'm perfectly fine."

"Yes, indeed." I drawled. "Tell me what you did yesterday."

Watson looked as though he might resist, but gave up when he sneezed violently.

"I walked to my practice in the morning. Yes, Holmes, walked. The day was much the same as you saw this morning, though I felt much better than I do today. I ended rather late, due to the large number of patients."

"When?" I asked.

"Near five. I took a cab to St. Mary's, and worked there for probably four fours. I had just left the hospital when a man approached me. He had a little girl who was sick, so I followed him back to his house, if you could call it that. It wasn't located in the best part of town, if you know what I mean. No, Holmes, nothing happened. " He added when my eyes narrowed.

"The girl was rather sick," he continued. "It wasn't until early this morning, maybe five, that I could get her to a stable condition. I didn't have any money left for a cab, so I walked to my practice. I arrived at near-"

I cut him off with a sharp motion of my hand. "You mean to stay you stayed up all night with a patient, and then _walked_ all the way to your practice?"

"What would you have me do? I didn't have any money," Watson asked irritably.

"Return here, for heaven's sake!" I half-shouted. "You couldn't possibly expect to work two days in a row and not feel any after effects!"

"Holmes, I am fine."

"No, Watson, you are not. You have scarlet fever and you have over-worked yourself for the past week." I grimaced. This could have been prevented if I had been a bit more observant of Watson.

Watson lay back on the settee wearily and closed his eyes, apparently too tired to argue with me. I fetched him a blanket from my room and poured a glass of water. He opened his eyes in surprise when I threw the blanket over him.

"Thank you." He said in some surprise when I offered him the glass of water.

I pulled my armchair a bit closer to the settee and sat in it. Watson coughed a bit after swallowing the water, but waved me off when I made to rise.

"You know, Holmes, it is worth it all to see the look on the parent's faces when I told them their girl was all right."

"My dear Watson, you are too noble for your own good."

"Truly Holmes. There is nothing more rewarding than curing a patient and telling the news to the patient's loved ones. Then again, there is nothing worse than telling the same group of people that a patient is beyond medical help." He said somberly.

"Then do not make a fellow medical man do the same to me".

He raised his eyebrows. It was a rare occasion indeed when I showed any type of emotion.

"I'll be fine, Holmes."

"I should certainly hope so. I would never forgive you if you left me to pay for a funeral _and_ the whole of the rent."


End file.
